The Holy Night

We sate among the stalls at Bethlehem;

The dumb kine from their fodder turning them,

Softened their hornèd faces

To almost human gazes

Toward the newly Born:

The simple shepherds from the star-lit brooks

Brought visionary looks,

As yet in their astonied hearing rung

The strange sweet angel-tongue:

The magi of the East, in sandals worn,

Knelt reverent, sweeping round,

With long pale beards, their gifts upon the ground,

The incense, myrrh, and gold

These baby hands were impotent to hold:

So let all earthlies and celestials wait

Upon thy royal state.

Sleep, sleep, my kingly One!